


Crossing the Channel

by poisonivyxx



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivyxx/pseuds/poisonivyxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Vice-Admiral Nelson has remained adamant on the fact that of the pair of thieves, one among its number was Bonaparte himself.”</i><br/> <br/><i>Mr Stark exclaimed over this fact and Miss Potts fixed Mr Coulson with her steady eyes. “Who was the other?” she asked quietly.</i></p><p><i>“The other was a man who claimed to be a god.”</i><br/>--<br/>An Avengers Regency/Napoleonic Wars AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which We Travel to Two Different Countries With Great Rapidity

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god how did this come to fruition??  
> I have taken many, _many_ liberties with history, and hopefully that you'll all forgive me. There are a couple of choices I've made on purpose. If something jumps out at you, please don't hesitate to shoot me a comment and I'll try to address it and/or fix it,

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It has often been said that if you wished to speak to the famed Anthony Stark the great industrialist (and the rumoured man inside of the Iron-Man, though this last fact was never remarked upon in polite company if one could help it), the only method that had any probability of success was to apply to his secretary, Miss Virginia Potts.

His offices at his manufacturing plants were sure to be deserted of his presence, though full of any number of harried and diligent clerks, any of which might be willing to tell you off in no uncertain terms, or even (it was suggested), to laugh quite uproariously and more than a little madly if you inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr Stark or his return to the office1. It seemed that Mr Stark did not value courtesy or respect chief among the desired traits of those in his employ, and any person who had acquaintance with Mr Stark in any capacity would never suppose that he would.

Appointment cards dropped at his home in Hanover Square were largely ignored, and in fact, if one were to view the parlour where he had instructed they be left, one would see that they table they were placed one had long since overflowed, and his maids had taken to strewing them casually about the floor. The oldest cards in the lot were from many years ago, and indeed, while his servants knew full well that Mr Stark had no intention of replying to, or even viewing the cards, they also did not quite dare to throw them out or to even approach their master on it (like all proper English servants, they were timid of those they served, and it could scarcely be blamed if they were more in awe than most, for the man they served was, after all, one of the most respected in the realm2).

Callers were summarily dismissed, and it could never be stated with any amount of certainty whether or not Mr Stark would be attending this engagement or the other. He was accustomed to simply arriving at a cards party or at a ball, or even occasionally at strawberry picking parties, and seemed not at all cognizant of the amount of consternation this caused his hosts. In fact, it was remarked that Mr Stark was being willful a-purpose, that in order to cultivate the rich air of _mystique_ he went quite out of his way to be obtuse. The truth was (it was rumoured), he spent a great number of hours every day deciding which gathering to present himself in order that he make the most stir when he arrived, and so no group of individuals could ever grow stale with his presence, seeing him more than once a quarter. In fact, if one had put the question to Mr Stark himself, which admittedly no one ever worked up to courage to do so, he would have been most puzzled, it having never even occurred to him that he need do such a pedestrian thing as confirm an appointment.

So really, the best thing to do if one needed to speak to the eminent Mr Stark would be to make an appointment with his secretary.

Though in fact, while she was called such, no one really had any idea who she was, or what title she held. Certainly her relation to Mr Stark was all in murkiness. _Secretary_ was a term of convenience, though everyone agreed (in private) that she could be no such thing, since, after all, she was a woman. And an unmarried one at that, who spent a great amount of time cloistered and unchaperoned with Mr Stark, also unmarried. The rumour was that she was his mistress, though it was often said that there were no observable acts of tenderness between the two, Miss Potts given to fits of exasperation and Mr Stark given to fits of mischief.

Ah, if only Miss Potts had been long of face and unappealing in nature, this entire controversy might never have existed! But alas, Miss Potts was the very picture of grace and beauty, with a most agreeable nature (unless it was with Mr Stark) and none who ever had the pleasure of conversing with her could ever report any signs of the lowliness which her birth must suggest.3 This only made the mamas of England despair all the more, for if Miss Potts could parade around London in fashionable and expensive outfits, and hold witty conversation with many distinguished and interesting men, and be invited to any number of important gatherings besides (which she attended in lieu of her employer, frequently on the arm of no one at all), all while wholly unattached and unchaperoned, what were they to tell their daughters! Miss Potts when confronted with angry mamas only laughed and suggested gently that they told them the truth.

Due to her scandalous nature and her utter unsuitability as a woman in the employ of a man’s tasks, many of the more conservative men in England refused to come into contact with her at all, and spent their time dropping by Mr Stark’s offices, or home, etc etc. Mr Stark had long ago declared himself quite without need of men who did not wish to conduct business with Miss Potts, and Miss Potts declared nothing at all, for all her many accomplishments aside, she was also a most unusually clever woman, who knew the value of silence.

All these hurdles faced Phillip Coulson, agent of His Majesty’s Bureau of Secret and Clandestine Affairs, more commonly known as Secret Affairs for England4 in his want of an audience with the elusive industrialist, and much more besides, for he was intimately acquainted with both the man and lady in question, and furthermore, knew that his presence was not wanted.

However, Mr Coulson was to secure an appointment on official, not personal basis, and was known to be a very professional man. The slightest squaring of his shoulders was all that he allowed in his iron clad self-control before he presented himself upon the door of Mr Stark, who was commonly known, if discussed, to be the Iron-Man5.

The door was opened by a curious contraption. It was of the size and figure to be a tall man, and was wearing the fine garments that announced it was a butler of an eminent household, and wore upon its face the slightly frowning aloofness common to all butlers of eminent households, but all the same, it could not have been said to be a man. its limbs and features were fashioned out of a queer shiny silver metal, that moved and stretched over its oiled joints most smoothly, and behaved in many accounts like that of human skin. Mr Stark had declared it an alloy of his own devising.6 In fact, all of his butler was of Mr Stark’s own devising, for the metal man was an automaton, capable of movement and thought seemingly all of its own, and besides performing all the tasks of a butler most admirably, was rumored to be a hardy opponent in chess besides. Mr Stark had given it the unlikely name of Jarvis, and it attended to all his needs with the utmost attention and devotion of the best of England’s serving class, though with the addition of an acerbic tongue that all those in his employ seemed to possess.

“Mr. Coulson,” it said now, its tinny voice showing just the appropriate amount of surprize and delight, “how good of you to stop by.”

Mr. Coulson now entered and returned Jarvis’s pleasantries, handing over coat and hat with no visible signs of discomfort. As you are sure to know, gentlemen do not often waste time conversing with the serving class unless it was to convey a desire for something or to deliver a scolding, or at least, not in the _City_ , but it was found that all who had the pleasure of meeting Jarvis quite overcame any natural reticence in favour of experiencing something quite novel, and it was no wonder that upon this occasion of meeting again after a parting of some months man and automaton engaged some minutes in pleasant conversation.7

Eventually, a young woman emerged from a room down the hall and approached man and machine with a most pleasant smile.

“Mr Coulson,” she said, holding out her hand in welcome, “how good of you to drop by. And so soon! Last we had heard you were still on the Continent.”

Mr Coulson straightened from his position over her hand with a wince. “Ah yes. The _Bonny Mae_ conveyed me back this morning. Is he in?”

“So soon? But you must be tired after your voyage. Come and sit with me a spell. We have much to catch up on.”

Miss Potts was excellent at question dodging, and Mr Coulson followed her down darkened halls gamely. It was a game that one often had to play to be granted the honour of seeing Mr Stark, and not one that he was unaccustomed to. Miss Potts was always pleasant and welcoming, no matter who the guest, and Mr Coulson knew from experience that she could keep up the small talk for hours on end and never drop a single fact that she did not mean to drop.8

They were soon situation in a handsome parlour that had among its only flaw a window quite overgrown with ivy from the outside (a particular specification of Mr Stark’s, not a defect of his servants), but seeing as a great number of the unnatural lights Mr Stark called electric burned brightly within and the curtains were drawn besides, this was hardly even a fact to be remarked upon.

Miss Potts rang for an elegant tea service, and served her unexpected guest. Mr Coulson gulped down his tea with unbecoming haste, then stood and begun pacing the room. Mr Coulson was old fashioned and the type of gentleman ill at ease in a room alone with an unmarried young lady, and as always, Miss Potts has paid it no mind.

She endeavoured, for the next thirty minutes to engage him in some manner of conversation that could be deemed safe in an effort to put him at ease. She asked after his family, (“They are well.”) after a number of his fellow agents that she had become acquainted with in the course of a number of previous alarming events (“They are well.”), after a few mutual friends they had on the Continent who she knew he had always made it essential to visit, (“They are well.”), delicately, about a young lady she knew him to be courting (“She is well.”), and finally, about the War.

At first mention of the War he grew agitated in the extreme. “It goes poorly!” He declared, “Extremely poorly. It is upon that matter that I have visited you today. I must know if he is in. Miss Potts, you know me to be a man not given unduly to alarm, and that you shall pardon my brusqueness. So when I say that the matter is of grave, nay, _national_ importance, I trust that you will do me the kindness of fetching your benefactor at once.”

Miss Potts was just beginning to protest that surely Mr Coulson was exaggerating, and besides which, she had not even gotten close to finishing her lovely conversation with him, she wanted to hear all about the fashions on the Continent, when a sardonic voice drawled from the doorway, “I thought I told you never to darken my doorstep again, Agent Coulson.”

Miss Potts closed her mouth, and merely shrugged, pouring a cup of tea for the man who was just joining them. Mr Coulson, who was not widely considered to be one of the most dangerous men in the employ of His Royal Highness for little reason, turned to face the doorway of the room with no outward motion of surprize and merely said, “Mr Stark.”

The man made a bow in reply.

“Don’t be silly Tony9,” Miss Potts said mildly, “Mr Coulson is always welcome here.”

Mr Stark raised his dark brows. “I thought I just said that he was not,” he rejoined, equally mildly, but strode into the room to accept the tea that Miss Potts offered him. As always, he was dressed at the cut of fashion, with his entire suit likely costing as much as fifty guineas, but he was missing his jacket and had rolled up the sleeves in his shirt so that his arms showed quite to the elbow. The queer light that burned over his heart at all times also shewed through his shirt, he having lost his cravat some time during the day.

This was often his attitude when working on some pet project or another, but as he often forgot to realize that Miss Potts sometimes entertained guests of the more fair variety, it had caused no little manner of controversy, and only fueled rumors that Mr Stark walked around his household half nude10.

“Trust me, Mr Stark,” Mr Coulson said, not at all offended by the other’s manner of speaking, “I come here on an errand, not for personal pleasure.”

“The war, is it? How is the thing not yet won? I have shewn the French the might of England; I have even heard there is a play about me which Pepper and I have designs upon attending, and yet—“

“And yet Bonaparte grows bolder apace, and much of Europa is swayed to his power.”

“Through no fault of mine, you must own to that. In fact, it is just the opposite. I had thought I handed over the means to win the war and here it is two years on and nothing has changed but our prospects are lower.”

“No fault of yours? Our navy can hardly be said to have flourished once you ceased your manufacture and design of warships.”

Mr Stark had no reply to this, merely set his jaw, and Mr Coulson paused briefly to savour the sensation of having scored a hit.

“You know nothing of the intricacies of War,” he continued after a moment had passed. “A single man in a battle-suit can hardly turn the tide so easily.” He then proceeded to gently explain the matters of the War to Mr Stark, taking care to moderate his language in the presence of a lady, though Miss Potts could hardly be claimed to be the sensitive type. The matters, as it stood, were not good ones. Bonaparte was shrewd and clever, and was proving much more adept in ocean warfare than even they had feared. And worse yet, for it seemed that the Frenchman had set his sights upon England next.

“So you need me to fight him off,” Mr Stark said mulishly, “though you say the battle-suit is not enough to turn the tide of war. Well which is it then? Shall I do a few maneuvers in front of the Channel? Shall I sink a ship?”

“D— the Channel!” Mr Coulson immediately regretted his outburst, and made his bows to Miss Potts, who only hid her smile behind her tea cup, not even deigning to blush at the strong language. “It is not just about that; our men are still worth ten of his on the sea. I do not think it has come to such desperate measures that you are required to scare them off. It is something else entirely.”

He withdrew from his jacket a folded sheet of paper, unfolded it carefully, and shewed it to Mr Stark.

The other man, for his part, shewed little displeasure at being sworn at and berated so soundly, and exhibited no hesitation in examining the sketch eagerly. Miss Potts stood and gathered a number of small decorative pieces of amber that had been gifted to them on behalf of many a delighted geologists which contained within them the petrified remains of leaves and insects and a great many wonderful things besides, and weighed down the edges of the sketch.

It was a picture of a cube, drawn hastily, but the artist had managed with a few deft strokes of the pen, to produce the curious effect that the cube was glowing. It was all in all a queer sort of sketch, since it seemed to behold something very plain, but all gathered in the room regarded it most closely.

“This item was recovered to us by the _HMS Valiant_ not two weeks ago. She had been hit by a storm at sea and the captain claimed this washed up upon the ship in the midst of it. Luckily for us he had the presence of mind to stow it safely away.”

Mr Stark’s brows were furrowed in concentration. “But this is...” he sprang from his seat abruptly and flew from the room.

Miss Potts and Mr Coulson, both used to this kind of outburst, merely regarded each other calmly. By the by he picked up one of the curious pieces of amber and remarked upon it, and by the by she answered him.

He was just reaching for a sandwich when Mr Stark returned, all in a flurry, holding within his hands sheafs of paper. “I knew it!” he declared, “The cube is spoken of in my father’s writings. He said it was lost many years ago, when he was but a young man serving in the Navy, and that its loss was felt keenly by all of England, for we had lost the chance to have within our grasp the item that would make her permanently great. In fact he mourned the loss all his days and wrote on it thereafter with great frequency. I would have thought of it sooner, but, forgive me, the sketch is very crude. He called it—“

“The Tessaract,” Mr Coulson finished, “Yes. We know.”

“But you have recovered it! That is great news indeed. If you should want I will start examining it immediately. My father had barely the chance to conduct but the briefest of tests though he claimed the thing was capable of great power. Where is it?”

Mr Coulson sighed, and as he did so, appeared to deflate entirely. Lines that had seemed not to be present before became etched in his face, and though he was a relatively young man of only a few years above thirty, looked for a moment to be ten years older. Miss Potts handed him a jam sandwich with great sympathy, this by far the best sandwich they had to offer11, and he ate it in two bites before continuing.

“We have lost it,” he said wearily, “it was taken back from us quite suddenly in the dead of night from Vice-Admiral Nelson’s very bedroom. He claims that the perpetrators appeared suddenly from thin air, attacked many a member of his household indiscriminately, and vanished again with the cube in front of his very eyes.”

“But who could have done such a thing?”

“Vice-Admiral Nelson has remained adamant on the fact that of the pair of thieves, one among its number was Bonaparte himself.”

Mr Stark exclaimed over this fact and Miss Potts fixed Mr Coulson with her steady eyes. “Who was the other?” she asked quietly.

“The other was a man who claimed to be a god.”

\--

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Alas, for now we must leave our tableau of players at their moment of greatest of shock and travel far away. We mustn’t linger on the exquisite widening of Miss Potts’ eyes, or the great slackness in Mr Stark’s jaw, or the bowed defeat in the intrepid Mr Coulson’s shoulders, but instead turn to a different avenue.

A far, far different avenue in fact. For this next scene we must travel across the ocean, not to the Continent as one might suppose, but further still, over the tops of the heads of the French, who would be very startled indeed to see us. We haven’t even the time to peek in on what Bonaparte and his new friend may be doing, but I’m sure you shall have no hesitation in believing me as I assure you that it is _very_ wicked indeed. Ah yes, past France and skirting around the great expanse of Africa, we reach—

India.

Important in many in international matter for time out of mind I regret to inform you that it shall not be the principal setting of this tale, which is to be the sea (for as I’m sure you know, many a great war is fought and won upon the sea, not to mention many a great battle), but rest assured that it is the setting of the next scene.

And what a setting. India was balmy and hot whereas London, far, far, away was still wrapped in the midst of a foggy, cold, and wet New Year, and in this country it was not at all out of the ordinary to see an English gentleman walking about on the street with his shirt sleeves rolled up, and it was nothing at all to be remarked upon. For in fact, many of the men and women native to this area wore far less than that, something that would have made many a young lady in the London we had just left behind blush very hotly indeed to behold.12

Englishmen were not that rare to behold upon the streets. Many worked for the Company and though the problems in the region were severe, most Englishmen back in Britannia would be hard pressed to name a single other conflict than the one against the French. The Marathan Empire’s quarrel with the British East India Company was mostly over and done with, and though those involved in the War were quick to say it was more than just a quarrel, the attacks on the homeland were a more pressing and romantic matter.

Even Wellesley, who of course lived on in great infamy, was no longer present at the time, having just returned back to England some months ago. It is doubtful that even if he had been present he would have figured into this tale, for we leave aside the spoils of war and instead travel to a small village a day’s journey to the north of Kolkata, where Dr. Banner was to be found, as always, attending to needs of the ill and infirm13.

A great number of the village were stricken ill with a particular virulent strain of Influenza, coupled together with the fact that the illness was so little seen in the tropical climes that Dr Banner was kept quite busy enough as it was, and in fact, had little time even to sleep. He often rose as soon as the sun and would be kept awake late into the night attending to his patients or sitting in on consultations14. He had deputized many of the women to serve as his nurses, though the language was ever a barrier, he was able to, with clever pantomime from both sides, ascertain any distressing symptoms and their preferred method of treatment fairly quickly. 

This particular day Dr Banner had been attending his patients even before dawn, and in fact had sat vigil on the bed side of a youth whose fever finally broke sometime around when dawn too had broke in the valley, which was likely due to the good doctors diligence, though he would have been greatly distressed to hear anyone remark on it.

One of his nurses brought in with his breakfast of mango fruit and cocaunut milk a young girl who immediately began ran to him in great distress. The woman had great difficulty in calming her down while Dr Banner ate quickly (he had long since dispensed with the niceties of English toilette in front of his patients, and ate with his fingers as the natives did) and then when she could not be prevailed to lower her voice, Dr Banner, the nurse, and the child were forced to quit the sickroom, on reluctance to wake any of their sleeping patients.

Having broken his fast Dr Banner turned his attention to the child, who by turns had buried her face in his nurse’s _sari_ and his own khakis, and prevailed upon her to explain using pantomime. But the child was too young for this method of communication, and scarcely had she begun before she gave it up to talk rapidly at the nurse again. This too dissolved rather quickly into tears, and the child sobbed into Dr Banner’s shirt.

The nurse said the word for _father_ very slowly and carefully, so that Dr Banner could catch it. He sighed and began to pantomime the symptoms of fever and weakness to the nurse. The two of them had been working together for some time, and the nearly silent dialogue was thus concluded quickly. The nurse went back inside and returned with the doctor’s Kit, rather the worse for the wear with his travels 15, which she handed over. It was understood that one had to remain to watch over the patients, and it was generally understood that the women were better at this. They were able to converse with those well enough to sleep, and soothe those poor enough to know they were dying.

The girl blew her nose briskly on the doctor’s shirt-tails, which he accepted with bemused grace, and led him by the hand to the outskirts of the village. Dr Banner had had little time for exploration of his home for two months, indeed he had come because he had heard of the illness, and had been put to work almost immediately. He had had a curious impression that the huts there were empty though had never caught the reason, and was thus surprized to see her leading him there. But as he had never fathomed _why_ they were standing empty, Dr Banner accepted the likelihood that he was wrong in this matter with the easy grace in which he accepted anything, and which had made him so popular with his peers 16.

She led him to a particularly dilapidated one, and suddenly shewing a reluctance that had hitherto been nonexistent, dithered about the door until finally Dr Banner, concerned of his patient within, entered without her.

The hut was dark inside, though by no means cool, and Dr Banner passed a hand over his eyes to wipe away sweat and to acclimatize his eyes to the dark. The door closed behind him, and in the sudden darkness he heard the unmistakable sound of a match being struck. The sudden glow resolved to settle itself on a candle, and revealed a woman.

The woman was European, it was no doubt, though to the practiced scientific eye of Dr Banner she did not appear to be English. She had red hair of a shade not often seen in the Isles, and a smattering of freckles across a complexion that otherwise was exceedingly fair. She wore trousers, which was not as shocking as it might have been to the doctor (skirts were often unmanageable in the jungle, and he applauded all of the fairer sex who had cast them off), but stood like a man in them, with an easy confidence that seemed to suggest she had worn them for years. She was also exceedingly beautiful.

But Dr Banner had never been one to be taken in by mere beauty (a highly regulated mind rarely is, but it is said that when they do it is a sight to behold) and simply greeted her with an ironic smile. “I suppose that there is no patient here for me to treat.”

She favoured him with a smile. “Hello Dr Banner.” He immediately decided that she was Russian, though there was no trace of it in the accent.

He performed a short bow. “But you have the advantage of me. For you know my name and I have not yet had the pleasure of knowing yours.”

To his faint surprise she bowed back, with the easy grace of a _prima ballerina_ 17. “My name is Natasa Romanova. I had you brought here in order to beg of your assistance. I’m sure you remember your meeting with Mr Fury?”

Dr Banner _had_ remembered. He winced. It had not been a pleasant one 18. “Ah, you must be a spy then,” he said, not very pleasantly. “Was that girl child a confederate of yours then Miss Romanova? How young they are twisted against their country.”

Miss Romanova only shrugged, his cutting words having had no effect on her. “Whyever not? I started at that age.19”

Dr Banner immediately regretted his choice of words and begged for her pardon most prettily. She gave it easily enough, and then they were both left staring uneasily at each other.

“There has been a certain incident and Mr Fury asked that I convey his wishes that you join him in London at your earliest convenience.”

Dr Banner’s smile was more a twisting of his features that made his affable face into something suddenly ugly. “Is that all? I am to be thrust back into a battle?”

She looked at him most curiously. “Why do you assume that, Dr Banner?”

“ _Because that is all that I am good for to you people!”_

Miss Romanova had her pistol out of her trousers and into her grasp in a trice, she held it steady in her grip and did not flinch at the thing before her20.

The thing that had been Dr Banner looked at her for a moment, the smiled and became a man once again. The man apologized, again, very prettily, for having upset her, and this apology was duly accepted, again very graciously, by Miss Romanova, who nevertheless never lowered her weapon.

She reached into a pocket with one hand quite casually, and removed a sheaf of papers, closed with a curious green seal. Upon it was pressed a stylized _F_ with no other adornment or crest. Dr Banner received the papers and broke the seal with great interest, and put on a pair of spectacles.

He moved towards the light to better see his subject. She moved with him, always keeping five long paces twixt the two, and he, being the perfect gentleman, feigned not to notice a thing, and read the documents with a carefree manner that most men would not be able to affect, should a pistol be trained at their head.

“I believe you are wanted in a strictly professional capacity,” she said when he had finished. Her voice did not waver a bit. “As a scientist. Not as...”

His smile again twisted, though his face remained wholly human. “Not as a monster?”

“No.”

Dr Banner looked at his Kit considerably, and stowed his spectacles. “I have many patients remaining.”

“You have Mr Fury’s assurances that they shall be looked after most admirably.”

Dr Banner sighed very heavily. “You come here purporting to offer me a choice, yet it is no choice at all, is it? I shall come with you.”

She stowed her weapon finally and smiled. He fancied that it was her real smile, as it was a small thing, and rather sad at that. “You mistake me, Doctor. I never purported to offer you a choice.” She offered her hand to him to shake, exactly as a man would.

He looked at it ruefully, then at her. The shadows cast from the single candle threw both their faces into shades of shadow, and in that instant, they both saw The Devil reflected in the other. Dr. Banner looked away first 21.

“May God have mercy on our souls,” he muttered, then clasped her hand. She was about to rejoin when he suddenly pulled her forward to stare intently in her eyes. She was startled to note that whereas before his eyes had been a dull brown, they were now a bright green22.

 _“I have killed many men you know,”_ it hissed at her, _“Are you sure you would not like me to do so again?”_

She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again Dr Banner again stood before her, and he had dropped her hand. She spoke before he was able to make any such apologies and addressed her words to both of them. “With luck, you shall never have to kill again.”

He said nothing to her for a long while, then smiled one to match hers, small and sad. “I have never been blessed with much luck, Miss Romanova.”

 

\----------

 

1. In fact, both these unfortunate things happened to Lord Ashbury, who had made the mistake of presenting himself at Mr Stark’s offices one morning in July 180—and declaring his great need to consult with the man. Lord Ashbury was not a man used to being treated rudely, nor laughed at, and had never in his life been shown to the door without so much as a by-your-leave, which was exactly what happened next. In fact, the most that Lord Ashbury received for his troubles was one clerk who managed to say in the harassed manner of all the clerks in Mr Stark’s employ, that his Lordship may wish to save himself the journey next time.

This affronted Lord Ashbury so much that he immediately turned a most unattractive mauve (it is said) and threw himself in a towering rage which the hapless clerk (who had only been trying to help) cheerfully ignored. Thus misused, Lord Ashbury returned home much insulted and spent a great portion of his free time (which much be confessed was quite a lot, since Ashbury not a man much given to scholarly pursuits, or, truth be told, pursuits of any manner whatsoever, besides that of strong drink and the card-table) crying out against the man.

Lord Ashbury soon proved himself very unpopular in Society due to the length and vitriol (and lack of originality) of his rants, and had to resort to sending a number of very strongly worded letters to _The Times_ , ordering them in no uncertain terms to censure Mr. Stark, as well as letters to Mr Stark. Mr Stark received those letters (it is said) with a great deal of confusion, having never made Lord Ashbury’s acquaintance, and largely ignored them. By and by the full extent of his humiliation was made known to the gentleman, whereupon Mr Stark laughed long and cruelly, not unlike the clerks he employed.

 _The Times_ interestingly enough, did print several of the letters, though it was in the spirit of satire, and Lord Ashbury, never having understood irony, and like many great men faced with a thing they did not understand, promptly decided it did not exist, and was much afire by his success and wrote a good deal more. He eventually died a very old and rich man, who was widely considered to be a bit of a joke, and not a very funny one at that.

 

2. And given to a number of queer practices besides. All servants know that gentlemen, especially those of the bachelor persuasion, and most of all bachelor gentlemen who were also by all accounts, quite brilliant, were given to fits of eccentricity. But none could have predicted or prepared for the eccentricities of Mr Stark who often declared that he wanted complete silence in the household, and couldn’t stand even the sound of washing. He burned lamps at all hours of the night and used electricity and current in any number of queer experiments, was fickle in his comportment, and it was not uncommon for bangs and explosions of any calibre to be heard throughout the house. And this was not even including his automatons.

 

3. All those except those who petitioned for an appointment with her employer. With those men she could be quite fierce and most immovable.

 

4. Which is to say, not commonly at all, it being a _secret_ bureau.

 

5. Of course, the door which he presented himself at was not the front entrance, the reasons for which should be clear since I have just spent much time recounting all of the ways that that would be a fruitless endeavour. And, as I had already stated, Mr Coulson was well aware of Mr Stark’s numerous eccentricities. No the door upon which he knocked was a side entrance, hidden round the house most ingeniously, so that all who gazed upon it were immediately convinced it was nothing but a shabby doorway for the servants use. For in fact, that had been what it originally was, when Howard Stark I, who was grandfather to the Mr Stark of this particular tale, had first built the house. It was Howard Stark II, the current Mr Stark’s father, who first turned it to his personal use. Beyond the shabby door now lay a most intricate series of rooms, which comprized Mr Stark’s laboratory and workshop.

 

6\.  In fact, he had declared it quite publicly, in an open letter printed in _The Times_ that foreshadowed quite heavily the letter he would publish in the same newspaper just a scant four years later claiming to be the man behind Iron-Man.  

Mr. Stark applied for and received patents on the alloy most rapidly, and much of England, and indeed, the world, held its breath, waiting to see what wonders he would create with it. The Ministers of Parliament had been heard to declare to one and all that they each had a great many ideas for its use in the War, and many an eligible young lady delayed her coming-out that Season, wanting her debut gown to be made of the material. In fact, in keeping his letter spirited but vague, Mr Stark had succeeded in stirring up all of England’s fires of invention with no practical outlet for any of it. The ideas of what the material could be used for ran the gamut from bullets to shovels, and a great many curiosities in between.

Then, as soon as he had got the patents in hand, Mr Stark disappeared with them, and the alloy, and to this date the only confirmed use of it was on his butler. Nothing at all could persuade him to loose the plans, not even a plea from Parliament. Paradoxically, while this increased the ire that government officials in general felt for the man, it raised his esteem in the eyes of all others immensely.

 

7. Conversing being one of the myriad of things Jarvis was quite at ease to do. In fact, the automaton could be reliably found to be the equal to any number of topics of discourse, and could engage in lengthy talks and even argue, if one wished, on a seemingly endless categories of minutiae, and never gave the slightest inclination that it was being anything but a man.

This delighted a number of stuffy academics who had long desired a conversation partner who would never tire and who could endlessly discuss and debate the finer points of fifteenth century English law, for example, or geology, both topics I’m sure you and I find intolerably dull, but which Jarvis seemed in no way indisposed to speak of. In fact, those academics spent a great portion of their time petitioning Miss Potts and whenever Jarvis was not needed on some business for its master it could be reliably found in one of the entertaining parlours up-stairs, holding any number of audience members (some still in their academic robes) enthralled on some lecture so dull I have not even the energy to comment on here.

However, this upset quite a number of the clergy, for when word reached them of an automaton who could reason like a man, began to mutter of dire things and portents, and sent quite a number of their fellows around to observe The Devil’s Instrument. They invariably either got into great arguments with Jarvis, debating round and round the existence of God or Heaven or The Devil or the wording in the such and such passage of the Bible or some such thing, and left shouting a number of dire threats masquerading as warnings, or passed an hour or so in the company of the automaton in nervous silence, only breaking it once or twice to remark on the weather or the health of its master. These young men were too unnerved by Jarvis to do more than mutter their threats, but it all came to the same.

(Notably, Jarvis changed the mind of one young clergyman, a Mr Samuel Adams, originally of Yorkshire, who passed his time with Jarvis first in towering rage, then in quiet debate then finally left his appointment in thoughtful silence. He renounced his vows, and in fact, all religion in general, went back home to Yorkshire, married his cousin who kept a pig farm, and grew moderately wealthy off its returns. He died peacefully surrounded by his doting children and grandchildren and his adoring wife, though the Church remarked quite pragmatically that he was sure to be burning in Hell now, since he was a sinner and a heretic. The eternal fate of Mrs Adams, who quite happily married a sinner etc etc, and who bore him many children besides, they never made clear, though it can be presumed that she is also burning in Hell.)

The Church declared Jarvis to be the work of The Devil, which arose a Great Debate in the country, with half agreeing with the Church and calling for its public burning, and perhaps that of Mr Stark as well, sure to be a witch himself, and the other half calling such acts barbarous and hasty. After all, if a machine can think like a man, and reason like a man, is it not a man? And man, after all, possesses a soul, does he not? This so incensed the side of the first argument that they retorted with a great many dire predictions of the Decline of England and the probable lack of piety of its detractors besides, which inflamed the other side of the argument greatly.

What could have started as a reasonable and intelligent discourse of the nature of humanity dissolved quickly into a rather disgraceful example of name calling and poor sportsmanship that many worried was sure to turn to a Riot on the streets of London, and the Parliament ready to declare a State of Emergency. But Mr Stark and his automaton ignored all these proceedings, as they were wont to do, and as time passed and Jarvis never emerged to entice man to sin or to declare his possession of a soul, its fervor eventually died out for want of dramatic action. Those who knew Mr Stark said privately that the real wonder was that any creation of his was capable of conversing civilly at all, which no doubt helped deflate the debate. Meantime, Mr Stark carried on as he always did, and Jarvis continued to have a number of lengthy discussions with stuffy academics, something that all parties enjoyed immensely.

 

8. Mr Coulson had upon one occasion begged to his superiors to recruit Miss Potts to among their own number, she possessing of so many qualities important to that of a spy. The request was never seriously considered, for it was generally known that Mr Stark could never bear to part with her, but it was a valiant thought nonetheless. If Miss Potts had known of it, she would have affected the utmost surprize at her consideration, but then would have likely suggested any number of young women who were just as subtle as she and suited to the task. Let it never be said, however, that the Secret Affairs for England did not count women among its numbers. It employed quite a few, as we shall soon see.

 

9. The man’s Christian name was Anthony, a most unusual choice that could be attributed to his father Howard Stark II, who had always felt Howard a stuffy name to bear, and who had been rather given to flairs of dramatics besides. He had ostensibly named his heir after Marc Antony, wherein the origin for the curious pet-name that Miss Potts was given to calling Mr Stark must lie. It need hardly be said that if Howard the Second had known of the pet name he would likely be so offended by it that he would come marching out of the family crypt and up to Miss Potts to bade her desist at once. Miss Potts always claimed that that image helped hold the pet name in extreme favour to her, though many suggested that it was retaliation for the pet-name he had chosen to inflict on _her_.

 

10. It was in part this inattention to his dress that Mr Stark could never be considered the height of fashion. On his best days he was every inch the dandy, with a most complicated knot set in his cravat, that only Jarvis was capable of fashioning, and which, in typical fashion, Mr Stark named after himself. But his best days were few and far between, and he was as likely to be seen leaving his house with his cravat undone, or his jacket creased, or one time, famously, with only one boot on at all.

The other part of it was, of course, the curious device on his chest. It shewed quite strongly in all but the brightest of lamps and, truth be told, lent him quite a distinguished air. But because it could never be successfully replicated since only Mr Stark’s house was equipped with that miracle of light (yet another of his secret patents), most had to peevishly declare that it was a glaring mark against him instead. Beau Brummell had once been known to famously remark that he couldn’t decide whether or not the orb was the most pleasing sight he ever beheld or the most repulsive, but either way it was an unsightly accessory.

Since this particular accessory kept Mr Stark alive, it could be said that Mr Brummell made the remark in bad conscience. But since Mr Stark possessed the easy confidence that made any outfit he chose to wear, no matter how complete, look like the height of fashion, it was usually said instead that Mr Brummell was simply being clever.

 

11. The jam was of extremely high quality. Jarvis had as a hobby (if it could be said that automatons had hobbies) a great love of preservation, and in its spare time made many a jar of jam, and pickles, and a great many things besides. As in all things, this it did very well, and it and  Miss Potts often made presents of its efforts to their particular friends. It was counted no small favour to receive such a present, and it was often only used in the best of company or upon Christmas in many households.

Jarvis also pressed a great deal of flowers, and made excellent potpourri, the house always smelled wonderful as a result of it. It drew the line at preservation of live creatures though, perhaps knowing how unnerving it would appear, an automaton surrounded by any number of creatures in jars or mounted on walls that it had done itself. Though one can imagine using little strides of supposition that if Jarvis had thought to lend a hand to that as well, it would have accomplished it excellently.

 

12. It likely would not have even been the bared skin round the torso, for English young ladies, on the whole, are made of hardier things than many a man would suppose, but instead it would be the bare feet. For the men and women of India walked around with sandals that showed large swathes of skin, and many, even more scandalously, wore no shoes at all.

13. Dr Banner, of course, served for many years as a lecturer at Oxford. Though he never held a formal practice, during his tenure there he instigated a number of measures and published a number of treatises that became quite the _vogue_ in England, back when it was still popular to use the phrase. There is no doubt he helped many by advancing such practices, and saved many a life indirectly. Among which he advocated the necessity of clean instruments in examining patients and suggested that those ill in spirit should be treated with refreshing doses of exercise.

Curiously enough, Dr Banner became reluctant to apply leeches after he left Oxford, something that his fellow practitioners found cause to mention in the same breath as his name henceforth when he was brought forward in polite conversation. “Oh, Dr Banner, of course _such_ a distinguished figure, and you must know I agree with him utterly in all things, though he _is_ loathe to bleed his patients, I can’t imagine why...”

Of course, such pronouncements were never made to his face, for Dr Banner was notoriously rumoured to be quick to anger, and shy of company after he had quit Oxford. The reason for his refusal to use leeches is probably self evident, but those gentlemen in the drawing rooms and gossiping in their clubs never could wrap their minds round it.

14. His efforts were not for naught, and he saved many a villager, so much so that coupled with the curious way in which he had arrived (in the dead of the night with nothing save his Doctor’s Kit) and the curious way in which he shall depart (which we shall soon come to), the villagers there began to revere him a bit as a god.

Dr Banner never realized this, and if he had known it, would have been embarrassed by it greatly, and luckily never had cause in the future to return to the spot, for the villagers had carved his likeness into a cocaunut and were given to worshipping it surreptitiously.

 

15. By his own reckoning he had been to Spain, Russia, China, Greece, Egypt, Jamaica, and a dozen countries in between without ever sitting foot back in England in the interim. His admitted favourite would have been Greece, though he would be quick to add that any such place he visited had been charming in its own way, though the citizens of China had not taken kindly to him.

 

16. Indeed, it was said that nothing in the world could induce Dr Banner to quarrel with you, and nothing in the world could induce him to even try. It made him a popular figure among drawing rooms, and he had belonged to a number of clubs without quite knowing how or why.

But Dr Banner was always game, and when he lived in London he could be seen out almost every night, frequenting one of the clubs that he was a member of, or dining with some particular friends. Wherever he went he was sure to be surrounded by admirers, though by his own account he himself could never think of why.

When he still lived in London it seemed that every person he met instantly became a particular friend, and though Dr Banner was only every comfortably well off, he never lacked in influential friends or important parties to attend, and his sphere held many more than just the Scientific community. There was a consensus, it seemed, that a more agreeable man one could never meet. Though it was general knowledge that he possessed a short temper, most of his closest peers had never seen any evidence of it, and those who had were not given to idle chatter.

 

17. Indeed, in her youth Miss Romanova was an accomplished _ballerina_ and danced in Moscow for many dignitaries, including the King of both Russia and England. Though she had the training to pass herself off as any number of aliases, still that fluidity in her movements remained through all her days. Her handlers invariably worried greatly about this. It was highly suspicious, for example, to have an uncommonly graceful London flower girl. With extreme concentration Miss Romanova was able to coach herself to move gracelessly, though in times of duress she often forgot.

She used her career in the _ballet_ to perform a number of assassinations, and was so successful at it that the Bureau used it as a cover for their female agents for many years to come. Dr Banner did not see Natasa dance, but when he still lived in London he had had the great privilege of seeing her successor do so. She was trained by Natasa and was an assassin also, though thankfully Dr Banner had no notion of this and had simply enjoyed the _ballet_ for its own sake.

It is said that even in her old age Miss Romanova was still able perform a perfect _pirouette_ , and that no matter how loudly her joints ached she was still able to stand _en point_ on the slightest whim. For you see though it was not the norm, or even the oddity, Miss Romanova was one of the rare spies who was able to retire from the Bureau and live to a ripe old age. Because it was so rare, I thought to mention it now in case you had become too alarmed at her ‘tell’, so casually revealed a scant few paragraphs above. You need not worry. Natasa lived. And more importantly, and far more rarely, she lived _happily_.

 

18. The meeting was a small part of a much larger tale, one that will not be delved into overly much here, but explained the circumstances of Dr Banner’s sudden leave of absence from Oxford and indeed, from England entirely.

To present the meeting here, without the framing of that other tale is a disservice that I, as the author, am loathe to perform. Suffice it to say that Mr Fury had warned Dr Banner in no uncertain terms about the consequences of his actions, damned him and called him a hero all in the same breath, and then had warned him that one day he would call upon the good doctor for a favour. And upon that day, the good doctor shall oblige him.

 

19. That was a lie. She started much younger.

 

20. The pistols she had were her favourite, with an ivory grip, and quite beautiful. They were always what she chose when she heading into an uneasy situation. They had been gifted to her by a great friend of hers and never failed to raise her spirits.

Her friend, while he did not favour the use of guns, was himself a great eye at chusing a pistol, and _his_ fate, unfortunately, was more in line with that of a typical spy. That is, he died quite young. Though the circumstances of his death were very curious, and it cannot be said that his life was an unhappy one, it pains me to speak on it now to you. Sufficei it to say he does not die in this tale, and let us speak of it no further.

 

21. Natasa knew The Devil, and had much more to fear than merely he.

 

22. There never was a name for the man who was not Dr Banner, though many in idle moments tried to cast their mind at finding one. Most in the end just called it what Dr Banner did—that is, a monster. There could be little question of that fact, at least. The other man could scarcely even be called such a thing, for it was a cold, cold, creature, and hungered for blood always.


	2. In Which Clues are Looked for in Baffling Places

**A never before seen exhibition! _Voyage of the HYDRA_ is OPENING SOON at the British Natural History Museum! See the WONDERS recovered by the intrepid crew of the very first British exploration into the ARCTIC CIRCLE! Witness marvels from a thirty year journey to where THE SUN DOES NOT SET! Featuring specimens including the _Ferocious White Bear of the Polar Circle_ and Artefacts from Native Tribes of the Snow! Behold the journals and sketches of Captain Stephen Rodgers, _Hero to the British Isles_! Do not MISS OUT!**

It was commonly known that all of London hungered for the new and strange. Though her citizens lived in a time and a city of wonder, where scientific advancement proceeded at a breakneck1 pace (to the point where many printers quite could not keep up with the news of the day2), still it was not enough. One only had to stroll along the river Thames to view the remarkable buildings that were being erected, or to view the incomparable St James’s Palace to marvel at the grand change of progress that marched on, yet day after day few did so.

The city was full of little miracles, such as the _steam_ press in the offices of _The Times_ , where pages were being printed at a rate of _1000 an hour_! Or to the Museum, where artefacts and specimens from around the world were on constant display, encapsulated from explorers and naturalists who had travelled the world over to procure the very best to bring back to London, purely for the edification of the mind. Or, perchance, to stop by Hanover Square, where every day, summer or winter, at precisely six pm the windows of Mr Stark’s house would all blaze with light! Think of it, a flame that did not flicker, or want of lamp-oil, or burn down, a light stronger and brighter than the highest quality of candle. Once he had perfected the art, it was said that all of London, and nay, the _world_ would come to enjoy such a miracle.

And still the citizens of London thirsted for more. For was it not said that man could find routine in anything? Wonders never ceased and so they stopped being wonderful, and even those newcomers to London who would walk about as though caught in a dream, mouth often agape, became disillusioned and bored within a twelve-month.

Boredom! That was what the people of London suffered from: want of excitement! And so when faced with news of the War, or of remarkable inventions, daring voyages, spectacular feats of science, the response was to swallow it all down eagerly and then clamour, _yes, yes, but what_ more?

This month’s particular marvel was the dashing Captain Stephen Rodgers, recently returned from a thirty year voyage of the vast Arctic Circle. He had mapped and stood upon the very tip of the world, and seen wonders that words could not do justice to, and horrors that were too fearful to even speak of. He was a hero of the first order, who had planted the flag of Mother Britannia herself at the very top of the Earth and claimed the land for England and the King (though he said that far from being land, it was more akin of a giant ice floe, and besides which , it was doubtful that England and The King should want to settle any colonies _there_ , but ah well, it was the thought that counted) and had survived many a cruel and unusual year in the very coldness of Hell itself, a Hell that had kept many a member of his crew.

It was generally agreed that while it was all very well and good that he had performed this service for Man and Country, there was nothing so tiresome as a grizzled old explorer who would tell ghastly tales that were hardly the thing for a light gathering! It was really too bad that so many of these great men had the tendency to lecture one on the faults of the government, or the ravages of the wild, and the folly of man to tame it. Too often they had not one exciting story to tell, and possessed a number of unbecoming injuries besides.

So when Capt Rodgers returned home, he was a breath of fresh air to London. For not only was he one of the most eminent explorers to return for some time, he was most amiable, and did not go on so, like so many eminent explorers were wont to do. And most importantly (especially to the ladies and mamas) was that he was young (peculiarly so), and handsome, and rich besides3.

He was the draw in many a ball and party of London that Season, and it was considered very much the Thing to have the Captain present. He was nearly always surrounded by throngs of eligible young women (and, admittedly, many more besides that were neither) and after dinner he was the chief entertainment of many a cigar-filled drawing room.

In fact, the Captain had so many engagements that he was often obliged to turn most of them down, though it pained him to do so. He was not a fan of parties, but he was a fan of rudeness even less, and often wrote his letters of regret himself.

For Capt Rodgers had left England in very different times, and as a very different man, and he still had trouble comprehending what changes beheld his city in the thirty years since he had gone. Before his voyage he had almost no notion of aristocratic society, and if not for the one club that he sometimes attended (a shabby sort of establishment, which he had only been invited in on the recommendation of his good friend Barnes) where the chief entertainment had been cigars and small talk, he would have passed most of his days alone, dreaming of the Navy. Now he was invited in to a great number of clubs, nay, he was _courted_ into some of them, where the chief entertainment seemed to be the card table, and strong drink. He witnessed many a man lose his head at the drawing table, though he himself of course, was immune to the effects of alcohol.

Capt Rodgers had left a small and most pitiable man, who had scarcely had the pleasure of conversing with a woman, and returned a veritable ladies man. He had so much to chuse from in the way of dance partners and flirtations, in fact, that he often wished for a few moments alone. Through no fault of his own, however, the Captain cut far too dashing a figure in his Naval Uniform, and even if he was a bit given to some awkward phrasing, and never rose up to the level of flirting that the young ladies’ coquettishness encouraged, it was more  than forgotten in the line of his strong jaw.

Upon his return the Captain was almost immediately whisked through a succession of drawing rooms, clubs, and balls, with the end-result of which he was pronounced a most charming and obliging man, if a little given to silences and naiveté.  In contrast, Capt Rodgers himself never felt less charming, and his throat was often parched from the amount of talking he had done in the course of the evening.

Many young ladies (and their mamas) had designs upon the man, and it was frustrating to all that though the weeks passed and Capt Rodgers grew no less charming and obliging, and certainly no less handsome, he never cultivated a relationship (not even a passing flirtation of the hint of an affair!) with a single soul4. Some of the more flighty of the young women had already given up with disgust, and moved onto easier prey (some of the men at this point were feeling rather neglected, and were more than willing to make up for any charms that Capt Rodgers may have lacked).

Though Capt Rodgers was kept busy from dawn to dusk, and was the guest of honour at many a gathering that any dozen men would have cheerfully pulled a tooth for the chance to be present at, he was dreadfully unhappy. His chief want was that he was incredibly lonely.

Though this fact may seem strange to many of you, especially since I have just spent many a page describing in great detail all of the different ways in which Capt Rodgers found himself in the company of others, and in tedious completeness the sort of conversations he was likely to be holding, he still felt excessively alone. Nothing at all of this London was familiar to him. In his time gone the people began to read different books, wear different clothes, go to see different plays, and speak on different topics.

“Oh it must be so jarring to you, Capt Rodgers, to return to a nation having spent so long abroad. Tell me, are the changes very noticeable?”

Capt Rodgers usually allowed that indeed things were very different. He had left Great Britain and returned to a United Kingdom. But Englishmen, he was certain, were still unchanged in their hearts and souls. Though as time passed, he grew more and more cognizant of a burgeoning feeling in him that perhaps this was not so. It was now quite an ordinary thing for men to proclaim quite stuffily in their drawing rooms after supper that the War ought to be won _this_ _way_ and that Parliament ought to behave _that way_. When the terms of their proposal were laid bare (usually in the space of a few sentences and expanded on in the most droll of tones) of course it seem appalling that their stratagem had not been employed before.

Capt Rodgers, who of course was a Navy man and remained so at heart despite not seeing battle in many a year, took particular offense to this. It seemed to him that now all Englishmen found themselves sudden experts in politics and war, and the less the man had experience in either arena, the more he would have to say on the subject. Only his good breeding prevented him from lashing out at such examples, and the fact that in all honesty, he had no idea where to start5. It seemed to him that perhaps all the sensible men in England were off at War, and though it is the fondest wish of any soldier to be home again with all the comforts attendany, Capt Rodgers could not help thinking that ‘home’ had changed very much indeed.

He was again musing upon the sentiment after having spent a very tiresome evening at Almack’s in late February. London weather left much to be desired, and the thick curious fog that crept round the street corners and his coach kept his mind turning often to the cold recesses and mist of the Arctic.

In fact, Capt Rodgers was so lost in his musings that it was only after he had settled himself in his coach that he realized he was not alone.

The other man sat confidently, with such a decided air of belonging that for some moments Capt Rodgers was convinced that he himself had gotten into the wrong coach. He was just beginning to beg the other’s pardon when the man waved a hand and the coach moved off.

“Ah, no, it is I who should beg _your_ pardon,” said the other man.

He was young, and obviously a gentleman, though he dressed plainly. Capt Rodgers surmised that he had recently returned from somewhere tropic, as his skin was sun-darkened and weathered in a way rarely seen in London. It gave him a decided air of sternness which was dispelled immediately when he smiled, for his face became instantly transformed to something quite cheerful. The grin which he directed at Capt Rodgers was so jovial and charming that the other man could not help smiling back immediately.

“I am sorry for startling you, but it seems that you are so popular this was the only way in which to beg a few words in privacy.”

Capt Rodgers immediately stumbled through some cordial apologies and asked the man if he had been waiting long. The man waved a hand airily and replied, “Oh, not so long as you may think.” A silence descended until Capt Rodgers said a bit awkwardly that he hadn’t had the pleasure of making the other’s acquaintance.

“Oh! Where the devil are my manners? It’s all this travelling, you know. Can’t keep the customs straight in my head anymore. Clint Barton, at your service. I believe you know Mr Fury?”

Capt Rodgers allowed that he did, and shook the other’s hand warmly. “Then you are an Intelligence Officer as well?”

Mr Barton chuckled in a most cheerful way. “In a manner of speaking. I mostly take care of the odds and ends.”

Capt Rodgers’ instincts (which were very good) were now telling him that Mr Barton’s ‘odds and ends’ were sure to be very bloody indeed. And in fact, despite his friendly manners and cheerful nature, everything about Mr Barton, from his manner of sitting to the way he placed his hands on his lap to the way he cocked his head, seemed to suggest that he was a very dangerous man.

“Just returned from the Arctic, eh? Was the hunting good up there?”

It was an odd question, though not his oddest6, and he gave it some thought before replying that while the game was quite varied and required much ingenuity to pursue, the conditions only allowed hunting for necessity, not sport. The other replied in tones of regret.

“Do you hunt much?”

“Not so much as I’d like, but I do consider it a little hobby of mine.”

 Mr Barton, in his short span of thirty-three years of age, has hunted most of the great game of the major countries he has visited, though there was no collection of trophies. He had always considered it merely something to be pursued for the sake of sport, and thoroughly unsportsmanlike to brag of a kill. It never occurred to him to take a trophy, unless it could be used to assure someone the beast was dead. Still, though he was considered in many circles to be the greatest shot in the world, and the greatest gamesman besides, Mr Barton himself never viewed it as anything more than a little hobby. A true gentleman, after all, should be varied in his accomplishments7.

“Now that you are back in England, do you find that things are much changed?”

“Some things are much the same. I left in one war, and have returned to another.”

“Ah yes, such is the way of our kingdom. I often feel as though we men wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves without War. But we must endeavour not to lose this one too, shan’t we?”

“Some things though, are very different. I often feel as though I’ve returned to a wholly different country.”

“That much is true also. Time stands still for no man...well, most men,” And here he gave Capt Rodgers a very shrewd look indeed, “I daresay that as a country we’ve experienced more change than most. Thirty years is a long time to be away, even if one is off charting the globe8 and there nothing is so conducive to the march of technology as War, as I’m sure you know. Do you find you miss it?”

Capt Rodgers gave it much thought. He was reminded of the inescapable, seeping cold, the strange mists, the creaking, treacherous lands and the bitter, bitter winds. The very ground ‘neath was as changeable as the ocean, and in fact in his journals he likened the Arctic to a desert in one breath and the ocean in the next, and indeed it did seem to be both at once, a place utterly inhospitable to man. There were the beautiful northern lights which he sketched time and time again but could never do justice to (paints would always freeze in the cold) and when he would paint it from memory he could never seem mix the right colours—the shades that he saw had seemed like something from a faerie dream. He had much to describe in his journals and conversation without once touching upon the building that he and his men had erected there, and the work that they had conducted within, but never had the words the describe the aching loneliness and the monotony of his time.

“No...no I don’t find that I miss it. The time I spent there I feel as if I spent in a dream, and am just now  waking. It made me feel alive in a way that one only ever does in a dream you know, as if you had not truly lived a moment before, but now that I am back, and awoken, I see that it was only colourless after all.”

Barton nodded as if he understood, and for a moment, the Captain thought that he might. “Like Rip van Winkle then, closing his eyes for a nap and waking up thirty years in the future.”

Capt Rodgers frowned. “I’m afraid I am not familiar with the man.”

Briefly, the other sketched the details of the tale, thou of course unlike van Winkle, Capt Rodgers had not aged a day.

“I can’t say I miss it though. The land is not a welcoming one, and every moment one spends there is a keen reminder that he does not belong.”

“Seen your share of danger then?”

“Yes. Enough for one lifetime, perhaps more.”

Mr Barton was silent for a spell and with a start Capt Rodgers realized the coach had not been heading in the direction of his home at all. In fact, it was going somewhere utterly unfamiliar to him.

“Would you care to see some more?”

He answered fervently. “God, yes.”

\--

**Escape from Toulon _!_ _French Forces Flee Forthwith; Bonaporte Beseiged by British Bravery!_ Napoleon rears his yellow belly, and forces sail from Toulon; Vice-Admiral Nelson, the Hero of England, in hot pursuit. Read all about it!**

It could be said with great confidence that all men who have had the acquaintance of Mr Nicholas Fury remembered him. Partly it was his singular appearance, for it was rare enough in those days still to see a man of African descent in the streets of England dressed well and striding confidently, and he certainly had striking features. He was not an old man, yet his face was all over scarred, as though in the past some manner of creature had raked large claws over his face, and he was missing an eye, which he affected to conceal behind a black patch.

But it was not just his appearance that made men remember him. It was his manner of bearing. Mr Fury stood as though imbued with the very essence of command, and though he was not overly tall, he always seemed to loom. His remaining eye flashed with keen intelligence, and it was without fail that when he entered a room, all others within it should naturally sit up straighter and look to him for command. Thus when he strode into Vice-Admiral Nelson’s lodgings in the port town of La Maddelena, Italy, and demanded full access to his staff and quarters, his commands were obeyed to the letter, almost immediately.

For though many of the people he had occasion to meet regretted it, and many of _them_ despised him utterly, it could be said that all respected him. All, perhaps, except one.

“Good God man, what are you doing?”

Mr Fury looked up from a close examination of the Vice-Admiral’s chamber pot. He was standing in Nelson’s bed-chamber, which bore all the customary marks of a hastily departed naval man9: rumpled bed sheets, clothing and bits of uniform strewn about, the contents of what appeared to be a shaving kit used and abandoned by the mirror, and maps and figures on the ground. It also contained a clearly frightened chamber-maid, who had been caught in the room dusting when Mr Fury had entered, and since he had not deigned to bid her leave (indeed, he had not seemed to notice her presence at all), she had cowered in the far opposite corner from him ever since.

Mr Stark stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed and carrying a smart cane with the head painted a vivid red. Today was evidently one of those days in which he remembered to present himself well, and his cravat was tied with aplomb. He regarded Mr Fury with an expression of intrigued disgust.

“Looking for clues,” the other replied coolly, withdrawing his nose from the offending object as if it were only natural that clues should have been deposited within.

“To what? And in _there?_ ”

“To the curious incident of the cube in the night-time,” Mr Fury replied patiently. “As to the other, it really doesn’t merit an answer. What are you doing here, Stark?”

“Oh, following you,” Mr Stark replied airily, “For the past few weeks you have put me to work doing the most menial of tasks10. I found I quite lacked for excitement.” He entered the room and sat down on a nearby chair, nodding to the maid. “Fetch us some tea, will you?”

The maid trembled at him for some moments before Mr Fury sighed and translated the request into Italian. She then flew from the room, Mr Stark nodding genially as if that was exactly what he had wanted to have happen.

“It’s likely to be of very poor quality,” Mr Fury said, now looking upon the Vice-Admiral’s pillow, “You ought to have asked for some wine.”

“Oh yes, I really ought to have. I just remembered hearing of Nelson’s excellent cellar. Shame of me to have forgotten, and I daresay it’s too late for me to change my mind.” Mr Stark was possessed of a quick moving mind, and often spoke with his hands moving, picking up objects in whatever room he was in at the time, examining them intensely for some moments before discarding it and moving onto the next. So far he had looked upon the window panes, Nelson’s razor, a piece of hair, and the head of his own cane. “Though you still haven’t answered me. What are you doing here, Fury?”

Mr Fury sighed. “It has been five weeks since the Tesseract was stolen from us, and in this span of time, not a single report has emerged of its whereabouts. All we have to go on is the accounts of Vice-Admiral Nelson, and his household. I have returned to see if anything more can be gleaned from the tale.”

“Surely your men have taken a look already?”

“Yes, Stark. That is why I have said anything _more_. I have already interviewed the principals of that night.”

“And _have_ you deciphered further meaning?”

Mr Fury sighed again (a habit whenever he conversed with Mr Stark). “It is a mess of a tale,” he confessed. “It appears the Vice-Admiral was awoken in the middle of the night by a bright light. When he opened his eye there appeared to be a hole in his bedchamber, about here,” he gestured at the space between them roughly equal the distance between the bed and the night stand. “shining with blue light. Through this light stepped Napoleon Bonaparte, and a man he did not recognize. Napoleon quizzed him for some moments of the whereabouts of the cube, and when Nelson would tell him nothing, he grew impatient and dashed off in search of it himself.

“Nelson immediately roused members of his household and gave chase. The man and Bonaparte were said to have thrown off the pursuit easily, and indeed, had wounded one of the young officers who had been in the front parlour at the time. They entered his study, which contained the safe, and in front of a dozen witnesses, the other man pointed his weapon, and blasted the door off. The two men commandeered the Tesseract, and disappeared into a similar hole.”

Mr Stark raised one dark brow. “And? Which part of the narrative do you have trouble with?”

Mr Fury gaped at him. “All of it! All of it stinks to high heaven, and in any other circumstance I would have laid my career on the line to call the Vice-Admiral a liar.”

“Isn’t he? The tale is certainly too fantastic.”

“No, I do not think he is. The tale is certainly a difficult one to believe. But within the heart of its implausibility lies the truth, I believe. Nelson is not a man given to tall tales. Were he trying to cover up the truth, I have no doubt that he would have come up with something easier to swallow. And there is the matter of the numerous witnesses, all among them trustworthy. My men and I have questioned them all closely, and none smell of a rat.”

“So then, what? They all were dosed with something? Made them see visions?”

“What substance has the power to make over twenty people see the exact same thing? I can’t believe that for all his cunning and resources Bonaparte has manufactured something to that effect. Though it pains me to say this, I believe the tale is a true one. Which means the crime could only have been perpetrated with...”

“With what? _Magic_?” Mr Stark’s face showed his incredulity clearly. “Surely you don’t believe in such a thing, Fury. I thought you a sensible man!”

Mr Fury’s features took on the cast of a man who knew full well he believed in ridiculous things, but was inclined to be obstinate about them. “How else do you explain certain aspects of the tale? The hole of light, the other man with unheard of weaponry?  You of all people should know we live in a fantastic time, Stark.”

“Yes, but we don’t live in a time of fairies and goblins, Fury! As for the other things, they can all be explained with science and technology, to be sure. I’m certain that twenty years ago if I had told everyone that one day cannons would not need to be loaded after every shot, some enterprizing soul would have asked me if they were to be loaded with magic instead. It seems that for once, Napoleon has simply gotten the drop on us, with regards to weapons.

“As for the hole, well we all know the Tesseract is capable of marvelous things. Who’s to say that it cannot provide a means of fast travel? Our tests on it were incomplete, though even _they_ shewed plainly that it was a powerful object of science.”

“What about the portal that appeared when the thieves arrived?”

“Well certainly the Vice-Admiral is deeply into spirits, if I know navy men, and excellent wine cellars, and I’d like to think that I know both11. They probably broke in some conventional way, startled the man out of a sound sleep, and he was obliged to make up the story to save face.”

Fury shook his head and voiced further doubts he had about other details in the crime, among them the nature of the wound on the officer12, the blasting on the safe door13, and the curiousity of the other thief.

“What, you have still made no positive identification on the man?”

“No. He made a point of calling out several times that he was some sort of god, and treated Nelson with the utmost of contempt. He spoke in English though, and none of my contacts could tell me aught of him.”

Mr Stark shrugged dismissively. “Bonaparte is a madman. It only makes sense that he choose to surround himself with other madmen.”

“I find it rather curious,” Mr Fury observed drily, “That one of the foremost minds of our time, who many have called a magician, would chuse to be so narrow-minded in his beliefs.”

Mr Stark grinned, as he did whenever he was complimented, however obliquely. “There is a world of difference, Mr Fury, between narrow mindedness and superstition. I trust you’ll find I possess little of either. Now, onto what _I_ find curious. What _I_ find curious is that Mr Nicholas Fury, Director of the Bureau of Secret and Clandestine Affairs, should find himself entirely at his leisure when a prize of great importance and power has been stolen from ‘neath his very nose. Surely this is not the time to be gallivanting about little ports in Italy, frightening chamber-maids? Surely, you’ll forgive the expression, you have bigger fish to fry?”

Mr Fury looked extremely displeased. “There are a few fish on the line,” he admitted shortly, “we are pulling them in directly.”

“Ah! Surely you don’t mean The Avengers?”

Mr Fury blanched and he immediately demanded to know where Mr Stark had received his information14. Mr Stark only looked haughty in return. “I’m a most curious man, and a very rich one at that. I am little used to leaving my curiosity unsatisfied. Come now, Fury. Do not look so put-upon. Indeed, I am the one who should be feeling hurt. You did not even ask me to join.”

“The Avengers is just an idle idea. One that will probably never come to fruition as _you_ are so difficult to manage. I have no plans to assemble a team to fight Bonaparte.”

“Then these so called fish?”

“I am assembling the foremost experts on the Tesseract. You were to be one of them, but now I’ve nearly changed my mind!”

Most men who have angered Mr Fury would have been terrified, sobbing messes. More than one man had lost control of their bowels when confronted with the very thought of having displeased the Director. Mr Stark however, merely stood and inspected his trousers and jacket casually, as if searching for a speck of dust (there were none). He bowed to the Director. “Ah, good. I am glad to hear I have secured an invitation to the party.” He then prepared to take his leave.

“Surely you did not come all this way just to wheedle at me?”

“All this—?” Mr Stark looked blank for a moment before his gaze cleared. “Ah, but you forget, Fury. I have my own ride.”

\--

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The coach eventually stopped on the outskirts of London. While you may clamour at the lost moments between Capt Rodgers and Mr Barton, as two men of dashing adventurous spirit, and who are both integral to this story, I can assure you that no lasting harm was done in leaving them for the duration of the ride.

“But O!” I am sure you are saying, “Surely Mr Barton and Capt Rodgers had things of great importance to say to one another. They are both men of the world, and having taken part in many and varied acts of heroics, surely it would have been of utmost importance to know the contents of their conversation.

“At least,” I am sure you are adding disparagingly, “it should have been more interesting than Mr Fury’s examination of the chamber-pot.”

Well, as I am the narrator, it really falls upon my able shoulders to best decide the pace of action. Too much adventure in one dose and one is apt (as doctors are liable to telling us all) to become overexcited. Parts of this story that do not contain a carriage ride between two dashing leading men have just as much merit as the parts that do. And it may well be that the chamber-pot held a most important clue, and if I were to bring it up later on in the narrative without warning, you could feel well cheated that there was no prior preparation15.

But still I can see you regarding me with skeptical eyes. Very well then. In the space between when we left the poor, hapless Captain and when the coach arrived on the outskirts of London, Capt Rodgers and Mr Barton talked about: the weather (which was pronounced horrid), the state of roads in the city (decided disgraceful), gossiped slightly about one or two acquaintances they had in common (Mr Barton informed Capt Rodgers that Miss Challoner had run off with a Marquis, quite in a disgrace; Capt Rodgers shook his head and pronounced it a d—ed shame), and Mr Barton told a rather dry story about hunting elephants in India16.

Ah, so you see? Absolutely nothing of import happened17. I almost wish I had not provided the summary—it does not add to our tale—but no matter. What is passed is past. In the future, I shall be sure to leave the boring bits out.

When the carriage stopped it was in front of a warehouse of enormous size. This close to the Thames the fog roiled heavy and thick and seemed to cling to the boots and clothing of people inside of it in a way that only London fogs seemed to do.

When Capt Rodgers had been growing up in the orphanage the boys there had often told tall tales. They would try to outdo each other by spinning yarns of outlandish nature, and each had to be recited with a solemn face in order to convince the others of its truth. He himself had not been very good at it—not for any lacking in inventiveness, mind you—because he had never looked the type to go on any adventures at all, and besides which, the other boys had all known that he was sickly. One of the better yarns had stayed with him throughout his years, and it involved his good friend Bucky stealing the matron’s scissars and cutting strips of the fog. This he gave to one of the ladies of the orphanage who knitted it up into a coat for him to wear. When he put it on the fog-coat made him invisible, since he was just a fog-boy inside it. Bucky the fog-boy went on many adventures in his fog-coat, until finally it got too dirty to bear, and he washed it and hung it out to dry. But because the fog-coat was so like the fog once it was put outside, it was impossible to see, and so Bucky lost it right away. He would always conclude the tale by mourning its loss, and saying most pitiably that it was probably still out there somewhere, only by now it must have been trodden all to pieces underneath another’s foot, or washed out to sea.

It occurred to Capt Rodgers that the fog of this night was exactly the sort that he had always imagined Bucky cutting up with scissars; it was so dense and thick, and looked exactly like the sort of wool that could be knit into a fog-coat. In fact, all could be seen of the roiling darkness was the yawning entrance of the warehouse and in the distance, gaslamps burned faintly. Capt Rodgers could not even see the top of the building though he had a sense of great tallness, and when Mr Barton clapt the coachman’s shoulder and the coach drove off, it was swallowed up almost immediately.

Mr Barton gave a peculiar knock at the front door of the warehouse and a moment later the door was opened to them.

Capt Rodgers went inside gratefully, though was surprized to find it little warmer within, in fact the man who had opened the door still wore his greatcoat. Mr Barton and the doorman entered in murmured conversation, which he could not hear any part of, even with his hearing being what it was.

In a few moments Mr Barton gestured shortly at him and took him down a dark corridor. They entered into a chamber and immediately Capt Rodgers sensed a great height to the room, and openness. This contrasted greatly with what his eyes shewed him, namely, a space betwixt the corridor he had just left and another doorway that was waiting ahead. In the past thirty years Capt Rodgers had gotten used to trusting his instincts, and he paused in the in the space, and began to look about him. A man emerged from the waiting doorway and began to speak to Mr Barton, who stood in the space between. Mr Barton attended to him deferentially. The warehouse was enclosed in much darkness, and Mr Barton carried with him a lamp. The flame fluttered about as if in a wind, though they were now contained indoors.

After a moment, Barton smiled and walked back to Capt Rodgers with this new man. “Capt Rodgers,” he said jovially, “might I beg the pleasure of introducing a good friend of mine, Mr Philip Coulson? He is a colleague of sorts, in the Bureau.”

Capt Rodgers shook the other man’s hand warmly. “It is an honour to meet another in service to the King,” he said formally.

“Ah no,” Mr Coulson said, “you must believe me when I say the honour is all mine.” Mr Coulson possessed blandly handsome features and dressed smartishly, though not memorably. In fact, everything about him seemed calculated to be as forgettable as possible, though his eyes possessed a sharp spark that was difficult to ignore. “I have followed much of your career, and I must confess that it has long been an aspiration of mine to make your acquaintance.”

But Capt Rodgers had stopped attending, and was instead gazing about confusedly. The lamp that Mr Barton carried did little to dispel the shadows of the space, and he was growing convinced that it was a much larger space than it seemed. Mr Coulson broke off his sentence and gazed at the Captain bemusedly. “Is something the matter?”

“This building,” Capt Rodgers began, then stopped, quite unsure how to continue. “Is it perhaps a bit... overly spacious?” he finished sheepishly.

To his surprize Mr Coulson smiled keenly and Mr Barton barked out a laugh in good measure. “Yes,” Mr Coulson said slowly, “It is a bit spacious. But whether one would say _overly_ spacious...” He nodded sharply behind him.

A moment later the room flooded with light. Orbs set in the walls blazed strongly with a bright light that Capt Rodgers was immediately certain was the _electricity_ of which Society all spoke of. If he had not heard of it, he would have assumed it was magic. So many orbs shewed so strongly that the room he was in seemed brighter lit than by daylight, and though the walls grew hundreds of feet high (there did not appear to be a ceiling) he could see every inch of it quite clearly.

But that was not even the most astonishing part. No, what was astonishing was what the light _revealed_. The space was indeed a lot bigger, as he had thought. But what he had assumed was a space between two rooms, or one building and the next, was revealed to be just a small portion of a much larger room. And the doorway that he had seen in front of him was indeed another building that was contained inside this larger room.

He could not even guess at the size of this larger room. Its walls led off around him in all directions, and though he normally would have spent some time immediately trying to ascertain an estimate, this time he refrained.

For what the room contained was an enormous balloon, missile shaped and it filled his vision as far as the eye could see. In fact, it quite dwarfed the gondola beneath it, which Capt Rodgers estimated to be the usual size of a building, but next to the balloon looked like a mere child’s toy. It was a truly alarming sight, made no less so by the fact that Mr Barton abruptly left his side to climb up the rigging of it in an impressive and acrobatic manner.

“This,” Mr Coulson said, not a little smugly (Capt Rodgers became aware that his mouth was open and shut it abruptly), “is the dirigible.”

 

\--------------------

1\. Often literally. Many would-be imitators of Mr Stark’s marvelous battle-suit would begin by trying the fruits of their hasty labours upon their own bodies, or more often, the bodies of their hapless assistants. What they often forgot was that hasty labours often made for shoddy calculations, and it was not unheard of for the suits to careen about the room wildly, fall to pieces, quite refuse to get off the ground, or worse. It was considered a vast stroke of luck if the proto-types left those inside without permanent harm, and for a number of years in the 1800s there was a shocking lack of engineers about.

In fact, this trend continued on for longer than it ought, most attributable to the fact that a young mechanist making its way about the world is often obliged to spend some time in apprenticeship to a more experienced man of the profession. Many a young man with a head for mathematics and common sense took a look at the shockingly low survival rates and declared that it was not enough to tempt _them_ , and went off to more safe professions, like the law, or clerkship.

Most memorably, an engineer by the name of Joseph Hammer set fire to part of Southwark in 1804 trying to surpass the Iron-Man. Mr Hammer had been a machinist of shockingly poor reputation but incredible wealth and had spent the better part of his life fuelling an intense sense of animosity towards Anthony Stark. He often felt that Mr Stark had stolen ideas he had just been on the verge of thinking up, or had only figured out one or two problems with an idea that he had come up with but had no practical method of inducing to work. For instance, when Stark Industries unveiled their self-loading cannon, Mr Hammer had felt personally robbed. For, after all, had he not often remarked to his acquaintances at _The George_ that what the navy best needed now was a better cannon?

And in fact, it was this very spirit of rivalry that propelled him to design and fabricate some battle suits of his own. He had taken to announcing to his acquaintances that he had designs to surpass Mr Stark himself, and that soon England will be toasting _him_. His acquaintances to the man did not take his words to heart, for Mr Hammer was always declaring things and proclaiming that he should soon be the toast of England, especially after he had been in the punch. Mr Hammer was generally believed to be a good sort, if given to waxing rhapsodic, whose chief recommendation was that he always footed the bill.

Mr Hammer hired a Russian of some brilliance (it was rumoured) but who had no amiable qualities besides that. He was boorish and sullen, and frankly seemed always in need of a good was, but it was said that he had the mind to make up for those ill marks, and Mr Hammer was certainly the kind of man who felt no compunction at taking credit for another’s had work.

It came as no surprize, therefore, when their partnership dissolved in the most explosive of ways. What was gathered to be a first test of the suit caused an explosion of such magnitude that it quite incinerated Mr Hammer, the Russian, and his entire residence that contained mostly the odds and ends (none of them working) of the inventions that Mr Hammer had always believed he would be finishing next week, or the week after. The buildings on either side of Mr Hammer’s residence caught fire almost immediately, and much of Southwark besides. Brave men battled the flames for nearly a whole day before at last it was becalmed, and all told, nearly 200 souls were lost to its depths.

Perhaps the most tragic part of the tale was that when Mr Stark was queried on their association, he confessed that he hadn’t the devil who the man was.

 

 2.  In fact, many stopped trying. Famously the editor-in-chief of _The Standard_ had a rule that he would only publish the first five discoveries of the day. Science, he was said to have remarked, was the work of the most rigorous sort, and as such should be properly scheduled by those titans of the mind. If you did not discover fast enough, well then he wished you the best of luck for the morrow. It was this opinion that was often cited to have led to _The Standards_ decline, and its editor being eventually sacked.

 

3\. Of course there were not many ships to capture for prize-money so far up north, but before he had left on his voyage Capt Rodgers had had the luck to make a few very wise investments, and they of course, paid out quite handsomely upon his return. And thirty years of hazard pay was certainly nothing to scoff at.

Interestingly enough, they _had_ captured one vessel, a ship of odd, round design that seemed primarily built for travel upon the ice floes. It had been manned by a motley crew of pirates and scoundrels, primarily made up of Germans, and _The Hydra_ had intercepted it terrorizing a nearby encampment of natives. It took some time for the natives to impress to the Englishmen that the strange vessel was not merely another misguided exploration vehicle, though once they did the Captain immediately volunteered his men to their aid.

Of course, the research ship was not equipped with much in the way of weaponry, and while the crew were to a man all brave and willing, it soon became clear when they hailed the other ship, that they were hopelessly outgunned (given that the other vessel’s strange design made it possible to quite literally, _bristle_ with guns). The story then went that Capt Rodgers, far from giving up and turning tail, assailed the boat himself with a small crew of his most able men, and somehow, in the scarce hours of the night, made it onto the other vessel and commandeered it for his own, almost singlehandedly.

The Captain of that other ship had been a man most mad, who seemed to believe in there having been a treasure of some sort buried under the encampment, and had been set on blasting it out. Capt Rodgers believed that the frost-bite had driven him to insanity (for the man had endeavored to suffer it somehow all over his body—his skin had been the most peculiar shade of red) and once he was deposed, the men of the vessel surrendered most amiably. The pirates later told him that it had been an uncomfortable few months living under the rule of a madman, and the Captain privately agreed, for the other Captain had seemed devoid almost entirely of reason, and had been ranting of treasures and Norse mythology when he had been led off.

Back in England the curious pirate-ship was discovered to be worth quite a bit indeed, and the bounty on the mad Captain besides. Of course, Capt Rodgers received a great share of it, and his men did also. And seeing that there were so few of them upon their return, that ship made the fortune of many a man.

This was exactly the kind of story that London society had wanted to hear about exploration, and the poor Captain was induced to tell it time and again, though it was clear that it made him extremely uncomfortable to do so. He was not a man given to much pride, and though his actions were indisputably brave, he made light of them when he could.

 

4\. There were whispers of a tragic love, though of course there would have been, and as the weeks passed and the Captain still remained obstinately unattached, those whispers became louder ‘til they almost resolved themselves into a rumour. A good many people said that the whispers were simply that of discontented young ladies unused to being scorned, and who had spun themselves a romantic fairy tale to explain away the simple fact that they were not to be preferred.

The story went, however, that before he left on his voyage Capt Rodgers had been enamoured of a certain lady who was quite unlike any that he had ever met before. She had been daring and quick-witted, and never shied from adventure (exactly the sort of nature to suit the dashing Captain!) and had quite stolen his heart away. That he had stolen hers in turn was no surprize to anyone, and the story said that they had been set upon to publish banns before he had to leave, and in the thirty year interim, well, he could scarcely marry her _now_.

Many a mama endeavoured to find the truth behind those claims, and though they searched high and low, they never could find a speck of fact to it, and the whispers eventually had to be uncomfortably dropped. And for good thing too! For the story was almost all false, and would have done Capt Rodgers a great disservice should he have heard of it.

Tragically, however, portions of the story were true, as these things tend to be, and though the young lady was not so young anymore, she did at one time possess all those qualities that had quite taken Capt Rodger’s breath away. And a great many more besides. She had been one of the most remarkably dangerous women in England at the time, and most all the men who knew her were in awe of her and more than a little in love besides.

The curious thing, of course, was that she should chuse to fall in love with _he_. For part of the reason why the mamas could never get head nor tail of the story (the other part being, of course, that the Bureau of Secret and Clandestine Affairs specialized in ensuring the privacy of their own) was that they spent all their time looking for the tragic love story between a young lady and a dashing and handsome young man. For of course at that time Capt Rodgers had not been very handsome, or tall and strong, though he had always been more than a little dashing and very good of heart besides. So perhaps it was not so curious that she should have loved him back.

Their love story is the sort of star crossed thing that often spans volumes, and which we do not have time for here. Suffice it to say that thirty years was indeed a long time to wait, though wait she did, and though a great many things stood (and always will stand) betwixt them and their happiness together, chief among which had always been time.

 

 5\. The most ridiculous of all these claims was the Earl of Shrewsbury, who was taken to declaring loudly to all that he didn’t understand why the devils in Parliament didn’t simply clap Napoleon in irons and throw him in gaol. That’d stop the chap straight away!

 

6\. “Oh, the Arctic! How exciting, to be sure! Was it _very_ cold up there, Capt Rodgers?”

 

7\. His other accomplishments numbered among them boxing, knife throwing, tumbling and other acrobatic arts, tracking, stage-makeup, code breaking, juggling, swordplay, poetry recital, cussing, and horse riding. He applied the same zeal to each of those as he did to his hunting and was just as mastered, though of course he never did consider any of those to be more than a mere pastime and he himself to never have more than a passing skill. The list given previously is most incomplete, for Mr Barton was a man thoroughly changeable and incapable of taking anything seriously.

 

8\. The fact that it had Jas. Cook onlu three years to circumnavigate the globe was not a sentiment lost on many, though few would chuse to remark of it in the Captain’s hearing. Thirty years is such a long time for an expedition. What _had_ he been doing? But the sailors of the voyage were to a man exceedingly close-mouthed about the particulars, and what documents and journals had been released were clearly incomplete. The general opinion was that Capt Rodgers had spent much of that time getting lost. Before that evening he had thought that only a few men in Europe knew of the particulars of his time spent in the cold, and that he had known all of them by name.

9\. In the ordinary manner of things his bedchamber would have been tidied long ago, but Vice-Admiral Nelson utterly forbade any person to move any item in either his bed-chamber or his study while he was away. This eccentricity stemmed from one occasion where he had woken with a clear-fire strategy to defeat the Spaniards that had come to him in a dream, scribbled it down hastily on a scrap of paper, then fell asleep once more. In the morning he had dressed and gone out, and the maid tidying, took the scrap to be only rubbish (she speaking no English), and had thrown it out.

Upon returning Vice-Admiral Nelson was much incensed. The idea was likely to have been bullocks anyway (as dreamed ideas often are), but what if it had been the good one? Or what if the good one was still to come? He railed upon the household so strongly that none ever dared to disturb his things again (something he often regretted when he would return to a mess). The most they dared do was a light dusting.

 

 10\. It is not commonly known among the public, but Mr Stark was in the habit of providing some consulting work to the Bureau. Though he declined to build any more weapons of war, he could usually be prevailed the lend his mind to problems as varied as transporting a thousand pounds of food three hundred miles in two days, or to depositing a man in the midst of enemy territory and extracting him a few days later.

These tasks he performed with the greatest of pleasure, since there was nothing in the world he despised so much as repetition and boredom, though he made sure to affix upon his face an expression of firm displeasure whenever he was petitioned, and complained about them excessively to Fury. It didn’t do, he felt, to make it well known that he liked consulting for the Bureau, especially since the tasks were performed in the spirit of extortion, the Bureau having long since agreed to let him have free reign in certain other matters in exchange.

There was little doubt Fury knew that he enjoyed them anyway, though Stark still tried to keep his consulting to a minimum. It worked out to be about seven hours every second Thursday.

 

 11\. He knew nothing of naval men. In fact, his only contact with the military was a Colonel Rhodes, who had been assigned to liaise when Stark Industries still produced weapons, and who remained to be his friend when he abruptly ceased to design them. Colonel Rhodes was a man of stiff countenance, and who Mr Stark had long believed capable of loosening up only when plied with a large amount of spirits. Accordingly, most of their heart-to-hearts had occurred when Col Rhodes had been drunk, which, after Mr Stark had torn up the weapons contracts, he was most of the time.

Col Rhodes had been the one to tell Mr Stark of the Navy, and like a true army man, thought little of seafarers. He had pronounced them to be drunkards and pirates, and dishonourable besides, though Nelson he had allowed begrudgingly, was certainly a genius. Mr Stark had formed his opinion on Navy men from those words, and it was a very incomplete picture indeed.

But, Mr Stark could reasonably be said to be an expert on excellent wine cellars.

 12\. The wound certainly was a curious one. The young man did not appear to be shot or cut, and if anything, it most resembled a bludgeoning. But the doctors who examined him said the pattern of bruising was inconsistent with anything they had seen previously, and though the wound had appeared to be slight, the young man died two days after.

13\. The door wasn’t just blasted off, by all accounts it had appeared to have _melted_ , for all that it was made of solid steel.

14\. There is nothing honourable in the telling. Mr Stark eavesdropped everywhere he went, and he made a habit of scuttling around and doing so behind closed doors whenever he was in the Bureau. When this gleaned him little interesting knowledge, he paid the street urchins to follow the men and women who frequented there, and to report back to him.

15.Alas, it does not. It was only an ordinary chamber-pot.

16\. It was a dry story in the telling, but not the happening. Mr Barton had a passing fancy for hunting (as was mentioned previously), but was such an uncanny shot with the firearm that he soon began to feel as though the sport were too easy. Many men might have turned to the knife instead, and suffered for it, though Mr Barton, perhaps because of his unusual upbringing, turned instead to another weapon.

He began to hunt with bow and arrow instead, and found the challenge of it refreshing, and in time, developed a number of interesting ways to apply the arrow. This particular elephant had been terrorizing a village he had been passing through, and though its inhabitants had begged him not to pursue it, Mr Barton was not to be deterred. Once they saw that he was meaning to use a longbow, they threw themselves at his feet in an effort to hold him back. But Mr Barton only told them in his customary cheerful manner that he would return anon, and strode off into the jungle.

Two days later he returned, bearing the ivory on his back (the rogue elephant had a pronounced nick on its tusk that was most distinctive) and looked none the worse for the wear, though he complained mightily that he had snapped an arrow in the pursuit. He did not mention much else about the hunt, though the villagers petitioned him for the tale mightily, save that if one applied them correctly, a bow and arrow could be much more effective than a gun.

The story he told Capt Rodgers was of what happened in the jungle with the elephant, but like was mentioned, he told it poorly.

 

 17\. It was not precisely that neither man had nothing interesting to speak to each other in. In far different circumstances each would have found the other’s company most enjoyable. But Mr Barton was a spy, and by nature, close-mouthed, and Capt Rodgers was trying to think on his circumstances.

Neither man was in a position to recommend his company on the other, and though total silence would have been most rude, neither man encouraged the other’s conversation. Mr Barton told dull stories and Capt Rodgers answered in short sentences.


End file.
